Ever talk yourself out of something?
Perfection
by BJ Neblett
© 2009, 2022
Oh, there she is! Man, she’s so beautiful. Just look at her. Look at the way the sun reflects off her long golden hair. Like a halo. Why not? I mean, she is an angel!
She
has such an incredible body: trim, strong, athletic, but very feminine. She’s
just the right size, too. That cute, pert nose is at perfect kissing height.
Especially in those sexy boots! Mmmmmm… we’d fit together like spoons!
But
it’s her eyes… those incredible, mystical eyes, so perfectly blue. I can tell
even from here. And they’re so darkly mysterious. What secrets lay hidden
behind those lush sapphires of yours?
I
wish those eyes would look my way… just once. But what would I say to her?
Hello,
angel.
No,
you idiot, that’s so stupid!
But
I’d think of something. It wouldn’t matter what, she’d respond. Of course, she
would, she’s always talking to someone.
Oh,
what a sexy mouth! With the sweetest cherry lips, it’s so dainty and kissable…
if she ever stopped talking.
Hummm…
how come I never noticed that before? She does seem to talk quite a bit. I hope
she’s not one of those women who talk all of the time. But it’d be worth it.
I
just know she has the cutest, softest voice. Still, some women do talk a lot.
But she’d find me a great listener. And I’d do everything right… everything
women want men to do: romantic evenings; fine dining; the theatre. I’d even sit
through a chick flick with her.
As
long as she didn’t yak during the whole picture.
I’m
gonna do it! I’m gonna walk right over there and say, “Hello.”
Just
as soon as she stops talking.
No
need to be rude.
What
was that?
Was
that her laughing? It sounded like a hog rooting! It must have been that dorky
guy next to her. I knew a woman who laughed that way. It was embarrassing.
It
couldn’t have been her.
I’ll
just wait here a minute.
Is
that a Fendi Purse? It is… wow, that purse cost more than I make in a week!
What kind of woman has a purse that expensive and rides the bus?
Porsche
in the garage there beautiful?
He
he he… then again, look at her clothes. She’s always so stylishly dressed, and
made up to perfection; so cute without a hair out of place.
I’ll
bet she follows the high fashion magazines. You know the type: Gucci; Versachi;
purple martinis in the trendiest clubs, one of the beautiful people.
She’s definitely high maintenance. They make me sick with their perfect cars;
perfect jobs; perfect clothes; perfect hair, and trendy cell phones, always
texting somebody, updating their Facebook. And Tick Tock, of course! What do
people see in that?
She
probably wouldn’t give me the time of day.
But
she’s oh so pretty!
Gee…
when she turned I thought I saw dark roots in her hair. It could just be the
sun…
…
maybe she dyes it. She’s probably not a blonde at all.
I
hate fake people…
…
even the gorgeous ones.
I’ll
bet she’s got fifty guys on a string. She’s probably not into relationships,
feels she’s too good for just one man. People like that are shallow… shallow
and insincere. She probably got where she is on her looks.
Her
looks… ha! That’s a laugh: a bottle blonde with fake nails; false eyes lashes;
tinted contacts, and a knock-off Fendi.
I
wonder how much that stuck-up nose of hers cost. Got a sugar daddy stashed
somewhere, do ya, baby?
And
you want to date me?
I
don’t think so, honey.
I’ll
show her, I’ll just wait here for the next bus…
…
but she’s so beautiful!
Been kinda wet here in the great northwest lately, more so than usual. Here's a little something I came up with upon returning to Seattle.
Bumped
His Head When He Went To Bed (A Seattle Primer)
BJ Neblett
© 2009, 2022
Rain poured down the day
I arrived. Big deal you say, it rains all the time in
In
1958, an unusually wet summer dampened my school vacation and washed out nearly
a quarter of the Philadelphia Phillies home schedule. Despite the rain, Richie
Ashburn had a career-making season, leading the league in several categories. The
next year went dry and so did Ashburn and the Phillies. Then he retired.
The
main difference in
South
Florida (more than 60 inches) has much the same routine as
Everyone
knows about
Nearly
every day you can wake up to overcast skies and a light mist or drizzle. By
late morning the front has moved on and the sun coyly reveals itself. It’s
great for hangovers, easing you into the pain. I think it’s where Carly Simon
came up with the line …clouds in my
coffee/.
Considering
the northern latitude, the shy sun doesn’t hang around very long in
That
doesn’t mean the Great Northwest never gets wet. Sometimes it comes down so
hard Saint Swithin would feel at home. Some days you feel like building an ark.
Overcast and gloomy, it’s the number of days leaving your headlights on in the
office parking lot category where
The
natives like it like that. No fooling. The web-footed denizens of the area are
proud of their reputation for wet weather. They perpetuate and encourage the
stories, and why not? It kept them nice and secluded for decades. Lewis and
Clark heard about the rain, turned southwest, and wintered in
Once,
if you asked the average American to locate
Then
came the ‘80’s, and Reganomics, and greed is good, and the “me” generation.
Somebody spilled the coffee beans. Astute investors in
By
the time the smoke cleared in the ‘90’s the damage had been done; in more ways
than one. The rest of the country was wise to the fact that
Yes,
Hippies. Ok, maybe not half a million, but the largest aggregation since
Woodstock.
You
remember the Delphian 60’s and the corybantic 70’s, right? Well, if you do you
probably weren’t doing it right. But you know what I mean: long hair, sandals,
beads (and that was just the males); blacklight posters, candles, incense;
peace, love, and recreational chemicals. In 1977, at the first appearance of
lighted dance floors and platform shoes; with thumpus uninteruptus
echoing in their foggy brains, the entire Hippie population of the
You
wondered what happened to the Hippies, didn’t you? They’re all here, lock,
stock, and New Age bookstores. You don’t have to look too hard either: that
bearded guy serving you your double tall skinny mocha; the girl with the pretty
blonde hair and large natural melons. The great damp northwest and the counter
culture generation are a common-law marriage made in heaven. The area is
perfect for them to grow their organic…crops.
So,
the next time someone tells you about rainy
And
don’t go for the lines about earthquakes either!
Seattle,
WA
August,
2009
New Year New Book And New Projects by BJ Neblett
Hello and Happy New Year! I know, a bit belated. But that just speaks to the craziness that has gripped my life recently. Working a new job, lots of overtime (a good thing) planning and working on new guitar projects, and trying to finish up Book Three of Planet Alt-Sete-Nine: War Of The Wizards has left little time for much of anything else. While I wait for the glue to dry on the new nut on my latest project, and before I dive into more work on the electronics, I thought I'd take a minute and give you a visual tour of what is coming in 2022. We call them 'Art Guitars' and while they are stunningly beautiful works of art in their own right, all are fully functional and playable. The pieces are hand carved in Italy by my friend, the exceedingly talented Fabrizio Uffreduzzi, painting and artwork are in the capable hands of Seattle artist Anastasia Rudenco, and I oversee and assemble the project. We all share in design and concept. Keep an eye here and on my Instagram account, as we plan on having an art showing of the Art Guitars, a few other of my guitar creations, and of course, Anastasia's own artwork. Let me know what you think.
First up is 'Brook', a Stratocaster straight out of hell. As of this writing, Brook is about half-finished and will feature some 'interesting' additions.
Anyone get the name "Brook" connection?
A wild wacky tribute to the peace and love movement of the 70s, Jasmine is a Les Paul suited for Jerry Garcia. She is currently in the capable hands of Anastasia, being decorated with all the fun colors that marked the hippie movement. Like all my guitars, Jasmine will have a few surprises of her own.
The Man Who Wouldn't Die A Special Posting For Veterans Day by BJ Neblett
Wishing all a happy and healthful Veterans Day. Here is one of my most popular short stories. Let's all learn from it.
Peace,
BJ
The
Man Who Wouldn’t Die
BJ
Neblett
©
2009, 2015, 2021
The subject known as X was a healthy
extremely fit and tone young man of about nineteen or twenty years of age. X
first came to see me a week ago. He was agitated and under extreme duress.
Refusing a mild sedative, he demanded he be given a complete check-up,
including some procedures not normally associated with a routine physical
examination. When he returned to my office yesterday, I had the results of
those tests.
And X had a most unusual tale to
tell.
“It is good to see you again.
Please, sit down.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“How are you feeling? You seem much
more relaxed today.”
His gaze passed through me. It was
the one striking feature on an otherwise ordinary appearing individual: his
eyes, black and dull. Even as I think about them now I am filled with an
unexplained dread. Hollow and empty, his eyes were those of a corpse.
“Yes, Doctor… better, calmer… for
now. The tests… do you have the results of the tests?”
“I do. But as I suspected and told you,
they show nothing out of the ordinary. There is nothing physically wrong with
you.”
He looked up at me sheepishly, as if
afraid to ask. “Tell me, Doctor, please.”
“Very well… all of your vitals are
fine. Heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, and respiration… all fine. Blood work
came back negative as did toxins and other samples. The only thing which stands
out is that your vitals and counts are slightly elevated; stronger than normal.
This is certainly no cause for alarm.”
His voice turned anxious. “Go on…”
“Your reflexes and motor skills
scored better than average; eyesight is remarkable. And I have never seen
muscle tissue or bone as dense as yours.”
“And the rest…?” With the question,
X once again became somewhat agitated. I was struck with the feeling he knew
the results before I gave them.
“Well… brain activity and function
did test elevated, but normal. You can rest assured you are strong; healthy.
Why I wouldn’t be surprised if you lived to be one hundred and twenty!”
With that X began to fidget
nervously. My words, which certainly should have assuaged any fears, seemed
rather to trouble him. He looked at me intently, those dark eyes studying,
piercing. Finally, X reached into his pocket, withdrew a photograph, and
presented it to me. It was the picture of a man with graying hair and other
signs of impending middle age.
“How old would you say he is?” X
asked.
“Oh, perhaps forty or so, I guess.”
It was then I realized the figure in the picture possessed the same chilling,
dark, dead eyes. “Is this your father?”
X tensed in his seat. His mouth
pursed, and then slightly curled in what I can only describe as a failed
attempt to smile. “No… no, Doctor. That is not my father. The man in the
picture is me.”
While his words were delusional, X’s
posture remained alert, attentive. “You do realize the person in this picture
while bearing a striking resemblance to you, is easily twice your age.”
This time the smile broke through
the stoic demeanor. It was a half crooked; I’ve got a secret sort of
smile which sent chills throughout my body. Combined with those hollow, dead
eyes it was a look I shall never forget.
“But it is me, Doctor,” he began
calmly, with an icy detachment of fact. “This is what I look like when I… if
I…”
He paused.
We sat for an indeterminable,
uncomfortable time studying each other. Finally, X seemed to make up his mind.
“It’s the curse you know… the curse...”
“Perhaps you should tell me about
this curse.”
He arose slowly, his hands finding
the bottom of his trouser pockets, and wandered over to the window.
And so began X’s strange tale.
“War,” he said at last, “war is the
curse, Doctor. War… killing… from the moment Cain killed his brother man has
been marked. Marked with the blood of Abel, and cursed, cursed with the thirst
to make war; to kill his fellow man. It is as normal as breathing. There will
always be wars, Doctor. And there will always be young men to fight them.”
Those empty, hollow eyes glazed
over, turning inward… seeing… remembering.
“I was a sergeant in the cavalry,”
he continued. “We’d been engaging the enemy all day long, pointless hit and run
skirmishes that slaughter men and gain nothing. Ironically, it was the day of
my birthday. By late afternoon everyone was exhausted, the fighting scattered
over a quarter-mile of rough ground. A cannon shell landed nearby knocking me
unconscious. When I came to it was dark and I was alone, the battle had moved
on.
“Slowly, cautiously I began to make
my way through the unfamiliar terrain. After a time, I became aware of something
in the woods. It seemed to be following me, marking my progress, moving as I
did.
“I turned.
“Suddenly, there was a flash of blue
steel in the moonlight. Leveling my pistol, I fired twice. A figure staggered
from the brush and collapsed.
“I approached my victim. To my
horror, he was just a boy, maybe twenty years old. And he was unarmed. Clutched
in his fingers was a crucifix. It was the shiny metal cross that I had mistaken
for a weapon.
“I knelt beside the lad, struck by
my detestable deed. Then, without warning, his eyes flew open wide! Clutching
at my shirt, his mouth contorted into a soul-searing scream. He thrust the
damnable silver cross into my hands.
“And then…”
Beads of perspiration dotted X’s
forehead. He trembled and began to pace.
“… then an incredible expression,
one of total and unimaginable peace, settled over him, and he died quietly in
my arms.
“It was then and there that I knew I
was cursed; that I would never again find peace.”
It became obvious to me that X was
suffering from some sort of severe post-traumatic stress. The cause of his
stress seemed obvious. “It is not unusual,” I suggested, “for a young man as
you to have lingering feelings of guilt about tragic events in their lives.”
X turned suddenly, his face now ablaze
with the most insipid grin. He laughed aloud. “Young man… young man, indeed!
But you don’t understand, Doctor. I wasn’t a young man. I was thirty-five
years old! And the year was sixty-three… eighteen sixty-three! I was a sergeant
in the 16th Texas Cavalry with Jeb Stewart. It was the Battle of
Milliken’s Bend, Louisiana, what became known as our Civil War!”
He laughed again, the terrifying
baying of a mad man. And yet, throughout his discourse, it became evident that
he believed what he was saying.
“You said it yourself, Doctor. You
said you wouldn’t be surprised if I lived to be one hundred and twenty! If only
that were true! If only that was where it ended…
“But no… not at all…
“After the war, I returned home.
Things settled into a comfortable routine. The war was all but forgotten. Then,
on my sixtieth birthday, it began to happen. The changes were slow, subtle, and
nearly imperceptible. It was my wife who was the first to notice. But within
ten years it was frighteningly obvious – I was aging but aging backward; growing
younger! My grey hair gave way to its natural dark color and was growing again
where it had ceased. My skin seemed to shrink, smoothing itself over my body,
erasing the telltale traces of time. Old scars healed and disappeared. Even my
eyes grew stronger; I put aside my glasses. And I began to feel as I did in my
twenties: strong, healthy, and alive again. And young! My God, I was… I was
young again… a young man of twenty!”
This time his laugh was sardonic;
bitter.
“Providence has its price, Doctor.
“On the day of my seventieth
birthday, I awoke to find myself once again in uniform. I was a new man but
with a familiar role to play in life’s capricious game. All that remained of my
former life was this…”
Reaching into his shirt, X tore a
metal crucifix and chain from around his neck, flinging it to the floor.
“…this cursed cross. Before I could
comprehend what was happening, I was on horseback; charging up San Juan Hill
with Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders. I was twenty again, Doctor, yes. But
I was twenty and brandishing revolver and rapier; fighting on foreign soil, and
forced once again to slay my fellow man!
“Returning to the states, I tried to
make some sense of this maleficent manifestation. I had a new identity, a new
beginning, a fresh start at life. At first, I thought myself blessed.
“How wrong can one man be? How very,
very wrong… not blessed at all but cursed…
“About the time of what would have
been my eighty-fifth year, although I carried the looks and constitution of a
man just thirty-five, I began to regress again, to age backward. Only the
process progressed with amazing rapidity. Changes seemed to take place overnight.
In three short years, I was back to being a young man of twenty again! This
time on my birthday I awoke huddled in a mud and blood-soaked trench near
Verdun, France. All about me, weird, mechanized monsters spewed fire and destruction.
We had created even more efficient means of dispatching our fellow man. It was
the war to end all wars. Only it didn’t… and certainly not for me.”
X returned to his seat. A tormented
look of determination, which was that of a man desperately baring his soul,
shadowed his grim face.
“Life became a nightmarish roller
coaster ride. I would live and age as anyone for a time. Then, one morning,
there’d be one less grey hair, one less wrinkle staring back at me from the
mirror. And I’d know it would be just a matter of time.
“It was my one hundred and
thirteenth year on earth. I was forty-five again but looked not a day over
twenty-one. I awoke, transported in space and time once more, an Ensign aboard
the U.S. Battleship California at Pearl Harbor as the Japanese attacked! Now the
devastation reached to the heavens, as airships rained death from above.
“I tried abandoning my conspicuous
companion, dropping the insidious icon into the ocean; burning it; even burying
the regenerating relic in a graveyard by moonlight. But to no avail…
“… I became a twenty-two-year-old
lieutenant at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. Nightly, endless waves of human
mayhem descended like locus, obliterating everything in their path. A decade
and a half after that war I awoke in a rice paddy. I was a nineteen-year-old
corporal caught up in the hopeless chaos of Vietnam during the Tet offensive.
“For a time, it seemed I had finally
beaten the curse. Ten years slipped by… fifteen… I was aging normally again.
But it didn’t last. Soon I began to once more regress. I found myself manning
the gun turret of a deadly desert tank. Incredibly, our fight was not over
borders or principles, Doctor, but for oil! Then, not long after, I was back
fighting in yet another desert war, defending ideals I couldn’t comprehend.
“And I survived, doctor. Each time I
survived the nightmare to awake and to kill again; the bewitched crucifix
hanging about my neck like an albatross.”
He slumped into his chair, exhausted
from his startling confession. Burying his head in his hands, X began to softly
weep. It was my duty to help this poor tortured being climb from the depths of
his delusional mind. I touched his shoulder.
“Well,” I encouraged, “whatever it
is that is troubling you, I am sure we can get to the bottom of it.”
“No!” X screamed, knocking aside my
hand. Looking up, his countenance became that of a man possessed. “No! You
don’t understand!” He snatched the photograph he’d shown me, from the desk.
“This picture… it is me! This is how I was not very long ago. But look
at me, Doctor… you said it… you said I appear to be around twenty!
“From cannons to tanks to airplanes
to Scud missiles… where does it all end?
“And tomorrow… tomorrow, Doctor… is
my birthday, and I will be once more constrained into battle!”
By now X was raving, near violent.
With some assistance, I was able to administer a strong sedative. I placed him
in the quiet ward of the hospital, taking precautions to secure him to his bed.
The enigmatic crucifix, which appeared to be ancient and perhaps gothic, I
locked in my safe. When I left, X was sleeping peacefully.
Arriving at the hospital this morning,
I discovered X was gone. We searched the grounds thoroughly but to no avail.
Further investigation revealed that the crucifix, too, had mysteriously
vanished. And then word came that war had broken out.
New Guitars Finished And For Sale & Book Three Of Princess Haylee's Adventures Coming Along
Admittedly, my recent guitar-building activities have cut into my writing... just not enough time in the day. However, I am making progress, albeit however slowly, on Planet Alt-Sete-Nine Book Three: War Of The Wizards. My publisher doesn't like holiday releases, so it looks like we are shooting for a release date sometime in the first quarter of 2022. Hang in there and stay healthy!
In the meantime, I've had requests for more posts on the guitars I build and sell. Here are the four currently available and the links to their page on reverb.com. You can check them out more closely there, or you can contact me right here for more info, offers, and questions about having one built for you. By the way, I am working on a very special project I hope to have finished in time for Halloween. You'll want to see this one, so stay tuned!
Another Guitar Finished And Up For Sale And New Chapters Completed by BJ Neblett
Been on a tear here creatively, completing a couple of more chapters of my latest book, Planet Alt-Sete-Nine Book Three: War Of The Wizards. Wizards is the follow-up to Princess Haylee, released earlier this year, and the third in the time-warping saga of Haylee Sera Dione. Presently, it is looking like a winter release for the new book.
I seem to owe the recently burst of literary creativity to spending more time working with my hands. Who would have figured my muse lives in guitars? I have finished rehabilitating a fine old classic acoustic guitar (more on that in another post), am in the middle of repairing and upgrading a new Les Paul (more as it progresses), and have finished a beautiful scratch-built Fender Stratocaster. The pictures below are of that guitar.
Nikki comes with a case and all the goodies you see here. For more info and pics, click the reverb.com link or contact me at customscorpionguitars@gmail.com or if you'd like a guitar custom built for you. By the way, the price listed on Reverb is negotiable. Make me an offer! Watch here for more updates on both Planet Alt-Sete-Nine Book Three: War Of The Wizards, and more guitars built, repaired and for sale.
The Resurrection Of Phoenix by BJ Neblett
Phoenix is a full-size, dreadnought guitar, made from fine maple and a
I picked up Phoenix at a garage sale, along with a very nice Makala ukulele for a bargain $20. She was in very good condition for a 50-year-old instrument, needing mostly a good cleaning and some TLC. But while servicing her, I notice she was starting to 'belly', a term used when an acoustic guitar's wood starts to concave just in front of the bridge. This causes the rear of the bridge to start to lift, and if untreated can cause the bridge to separate from the body. In a high-quality instrument, bridge separation can be a rather expensive fix. For an older budget guitar, it is a death sentence.
